


lookout

by Inkjade



Series: world enough [3]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Allison Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Angst, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, Mentions of Suicide, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Bonding, So much talking, Talking, The Author Regrets Nothing, but in that way where your younger self tries to off your older self because you're a time traveler, more tags later probably, that tag will make more sense later, truth chicken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:09:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkjade/pseuds/Inkjade
Summary: definition:1. a person engaged in keeping watch (noun)2. a position that affords a greater perspective (noun)3. a point of concern (noun)4. to take care (verb)5. a recovering junkie/medium/former cult leader trying to get his shit together because he's somehow inherited his twice-dead brother's conscience (who knows)
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Allison Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Series: world enough [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894417
Comments: 109
Kudos: 481
Collections: Creatures and Gods and Magicals Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You are all lovely and your comments on this series make my day. <3
> 
> I guess I'm not quite done with these idiots yet.

Klaus is the one who gets to see Vanya land her first punch on their baby older brother.

This is because he meditates. It was a gimmick back in the 60s, mostly used to get his flock of sheeple to shut up for an hour or so: they got so _clingy_ in the afternoons. Sitting in lotus staring at the ceiling with them was like ice cream on a hot day. If ice cream hummed off-key, chanted snippets from 90s pop hits with hilarious gravity, and sometimes cried. But hey, lotus rhymes with coitus because reasons, so the post-meditation hour was his favorite.

These days it’s more of a balance thing.

In any case, wandering around Tilly’s sweet little side garden in the early hours, smelling flowers and me-timing his heart out, turns out to be a good way to get an eyeful of a tiny teen hit man with a Napoleon complex catching a fist with his nose.

“Huh,” Five says, touching his bloody face with a knuckle.

“Holy shit,” Vanya says, putting both hands up like a robbery victim. “Oh my god. I didn’t think I was going to get you. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Five replies: he would probably say the same thing if she’d knocked him flat with a shockwave. He looks a little dazed to Klaus. “Calm down. That actually wasn’t bad.”

“Are you _okay_ , Five.”

“You should follow up with a heel kick to my closest knee, then grab my hair and smash my head down into your knee. Don’t pause to admire the effect, you need me on the ground.” Five sits on the ground suddenly, blinking. “Shit.”

“I’m getting you some ice,” Vanya says, sounding stressed. Five waves a hand at her in a vague _stop someone might see and ask you why and then I will have to put up with sibling mockery_ sort of gesture, but little Vanny is already striding off like a pocket-sized general. She’d have made a kickass mission partner if Dad hadn’t squashed her soul before she was in knee socks.

Five wipes the blood from his peach-fuzzy upper lip and bends until his head is between his knobby knees. He laces his fingers behind his neck and sighs. “Shit,” he says again.

He looks small. _Check him, Klaus_ , Ben says, except he doesn’t because he’s not there. This is the ghost of Benny’s ghost haunting him, and he’s as much of a pain in the ass as he was when he was undead, except Klaus can’t talk back anymore. Isn’t that a laugh?

Klaus sidles out from behind his bush, mostly because little Fivey doesn’t seem like he’s got the juice to be too terribly threatening at the moment, and maybe partly because he looks like he’s about to pass out. Which doesn’t stop him from straightening up the second Klaus takes a step.

“She bonked you good, short stack,” Klaus says, keeping a safe distance, because safety comes first. Especially with this sibling.

What if he met a girl named Safety? That would be the _best_. Who doesn’t love a good sex pun.

“Klaus,” Five sighs. “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to keep this to yourself.”

Klaus sits, still well outside of arm’s reach. The grass is prickly. So is this brother. It’s nicely symmetrical. “Don’t want to boast about turning our smallest sister into an assassin-punching badass? That doesn’t seem like you.”

“She surprised me,” Five says ruefully, and wipes his nose again.

“She does do that. _Or_ you slept for shit, forgot to eat again last night, and oh, yeah—kept starting to blink past her and stopping yourself because no powers in the fighting ring today, children,” Klaus intones, with air quotes, because this was usually what tripped Five up when they were kids. He fought like a smug skinny demon on roids, but you could wear him down when he wasn’t allowed to jump around. Something about the start-stop of it all, fighting his instincts. It’s interesting that this is still a thing, but then, what little he’s seen of Five fighting doesn’t suggest Five is big on self-restraint when his blood is up, so Klaus supposes he hasn’t spent his typical forever obsessing over fixing this particular crack in his armor.

Five frowns at him like’s he’s only just remembered he’s sitting next to somebody he grew up with, at least for years zero through thirteen. Klaus waggles an eyebrow. It’s a trip and a half every time, talking to a cranky old man who wears the face of the first person he lost. Five is still Five at any age, though. There is continuity. There is just not as much as Klaus wants, and his poor, battered brain keeps trying to fill in the gaps with hazy memories.

An old lady appears behind Five, shakes her head at him like a disappointed elderly aunt, and wanders off. Her shirt has a hole in it, right over the heart. There isn’t much blood. Klaus gives a little wave.

He can always tell which ones belong to Five, because they aren’t messy and they don’t have much to say.

“Ghost?”

Klaus leans back on his elbows. “Dark hair, cloche hat, patent leather heels, snazzy brown power dress. Some kind of purple scarf? Doesn’t really go with the outfit. Love the shoes, though. Shot in the chest.”

“Prague in ‘41,” Five mutters, gaze going faraway.

This could be a shitty, shitty game, the very shittiest: Klaus could rattle off ghost deets and Five could match them to his hits and they could both get a lot more neurotic. “She’s gone,” he says to the sky. “She didn’t seem too pissed off about it.”

“Like I care.”

Now _there’s_ a line Klaus’ wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot stripper pole. He shrugs and doesn’t look at Five’s lack of expression, which he suspects is about as thick as a sheet of paper. “Law of the jungle, right, gramps?”

There’s a familiar _fizz-fwoomp_ noise. “Good talk,” Klaus sighs, and decides to take a nap in the jacuzzi tub upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

“—was one thing when you were bullshitting dealers, but these people _believe_ you,” Ben is saying. There was more before that, something something ethics something time changes, blah blah Klaus-you’re-such-a-selfish-dick blah, but Klaus learned how to tune out these monologues _sans_ headphones quite some time ago. When was the Walkman invented, he wonders. It’s probably a ways off.

“I’m thinking next is San Fran,” he says, and sinks a little further down in the tub. “I’d make a very pretty flower child.”

“Ginsberg won’t even write about that for another four years, asshole.”

“Oh god, Benny, ow! You’re such a _nerd_. Does it hurt? It sounds like it hurts. It hurts _me_.”

Ben stares out the window, where, from the sound of it, Tilly’s growing entourage of ghost-obsessed socialites are gabbing about Klaus's latest display of brother-propelled, gravity-defying feats. His shoulders are hunched up. He gets like this: the dead are a moody bunch, and Ben was a bit of a wet blanket even when he had a pulse.

“Let’s go back to the alley again,” he says, non-corporeal hands in his non-corporeal pockets.

Why do ghosts even _have_ clothes? If Klaus was dead, he’d strip off and scare the shit out of everyone balls out and buttcheeks bouncing.

“They’re not there,” he says, and sinks deeper into the water. “They’re not! Five would have hunted me down by now like the tenacious little terrier he is. Luther would be lurking somewhere. Vanya—”

Christ, he hopes Vanya made it somewhere nice: she deserves a win. One of the Hargreaves ought to get a win out of this. Diego could have used one too: he lost his girl. Luther lost his ideals and sense of purpose. Allison lost her voice and her power. Fivey lost, well. Hard to say with the tater tot, but there’d been despair hiding under his usual degree of smug condescension for most of that last week, so probably something.

Klaus lost Dave and his drugs. And all of his living siblings.

Not that he’d really _had_ them to begin with. Oh well. It’s a shitty world. At least he’s living in the lap of luxury this go-round. He should have worked on his powers and come up with this scam back in 2010. His life would have been pretty different.

“They’d look for us,” Ben says in that quiet, judgey way he has. “You _know_ they’re alive somewhere Klaus, you can’t lie to me about that.”

Goddammit.

“Fine. Tomorrow. One more time, Jiminy Cricket. Then we’re busting outta this popsicle stand. I just don’t—I can’t just sit here waiting.”

Ben’s stare is both disappointed—what else is new—and knowing, because Benny has been around for the entire shitshow that is his life.

It should have been me on that side, Klaus thinks, and slides down until his head is under the bubbles.

~~

Allison is daydrinking in the kitchen when he comes back down, squeaky-clean and smelling like the gardenia body wash he stole from her bathroom yesterday.

Not like heavily daydrinking: this is not _a Klaus gave up drugs and we have to pick up the slack_ moment, though there have certainly been a few of those since Five browbeat them all into staying put while he figures out his timeline stuff. It’s just a beer. Klaus doesn’t think he’s ever seen Allison put away a Heineken before, it seems too common for her glam. She’s toying with a phone book, flipping the pages one way and another.

_She’s toying with more than that, Klaus. Look at her._

“Shut up, Benny,” Klaus mutters. After twenty-something years of being the family fuckup, worrying about his sibs is a little weird, but there’s nobody else to do it now, so. He’s adjusting.

“Thinking about leaving the res, sis?”

“No,” Allison replies, and drinks. Yes. She shoves the phone book away. “Just…thinking.”

About her little girl, probably. She’s been doing a hell of a job pretending, but she gets quiet when she doesn’t think anybody’s watching. Allison always did _on_ better than any of them. She might have rumored her way into some of those acting gigs, but definitely not all of them. Klaus sits on the counter and plucks one of the bottles from the sixpack, pops the top off with his teeth. His sister grimaces.

Or maybe she’s got her mind on her husband, who’d seemed like a pretty good guy, all things considered. It’s bizarre to think she had this whole put-together life in the 60s, do-gooding it up while the rest of them mostly cobbled together their jagged little pieces and counted them as per usual. Getting her throat cut by an enraged newly-powered sibling on a massive prescription comedown might have been one of the better things that’s happened to Allie, weirdly enough.

“Do you think they’re all, like, better-adjusted that we are?” Klaus says, lying back on the counter. “I mean, Dad, so probably not, right? But maybe he did better this time.”

“I doubt it,” Allison says. “And honestly, fuck him if he did.”

“And if he didn’t.”

“Either way.”

“Yeeeaaah.” Klaus takes a swig and makes a face, because beer. Ugh. Much better as a shampoo. He wonders what not-Ben is doing right now. Probably styling his awful hair. Trimming that scruffy goatee with hedge clippers. Or planning to find them and kill them. Wouldn’t that be a trip.

But no. Because it’s not, not, not Ben. Benny is in the light where he belongs. Benny left his penchant for sticking his nose into his sibs’ business behind, but the rest of him is gone. That was just his emo doppelganger, and honestly, he seemed like a bit of a prick.

“Wonder if he just found different ones by accident, or went out of his way to avoid baby us? I mean, we were like two or three before we figured out we had different powers, right, so how even? But if anybody could pigeonhole an infant, it’d be dear old Dad.”

Maybe it was a catch-and-release thing. That would be…worse, actually.

Maybe their replacements _aren’t_ _fuckups_ , and what a notion that is. Or maybe they’re all Luthers before poor Luther wised up and they don’t know any better yet. Klaus could feel kind of horrible about that, if he thought about it. He decides not to.

Allison pushes the phone book with a finger. “For the first few years I kept waiting for something like that to appear with,” she says, and stops before she can get the name out. Klaus pulls himself up on his elbows. She finishes her beer. “Claire,” she squeaks.

Klaus sits up, skootches over so his legs are dangling, and pats his sister’s hair. He can feel her tense up right through her scalp, but after a second she sighs and rests her head on his knee. The way she goes limp against him makes him a little teary. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, though how he has no idea. “Fivey’s on the case, and you know how freakishly intense he is about family. Tiny tyrant won’t ever admit it, but I’m pretty sure the other seven billion humans on the planet were sort of an afterthought for him. He wants to meet his niece.”

“So you don’t see her, then,” Allison whispers into his jeans. Klaus twitches a little.

“No, sweetie. Not a hint. I’d tell you.” Maybe. No. Not really. “Sometimes I see Five’s kills, and sometimes there’s a gardener who kicked it out on the lawn like a decade ago.”

“Oh god,” Allison says, and sits up to rub her eyes. “That’s…epically messed up.”

“Yeah, she _literally_ bit the dust. Well, grass. But still: morbid cliché achieved.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Yeah.” Klaus sighs. “There aren’t a lot of them hanging around. I think most of them never even knew what hit them. Or should I say who. The Commission goons he offed definitely do, though, and they ain’t happy about it.”

Allie makes a thoughtful face and pins him with a look that says some kind of bad idea is coming, and The Seance will be its unwilling centerpiece. “Well _hey_ , how about that, it’s time for hot yoga,” Klaus announces, slapping his knee. He slides off the counter. Allison grabs his arm. He slumps. “No, _come_ on. Allie. No!”

“Klaus.”

“ _No_.” Cue the Allison Death Stare. He looks out the window. “Do you know how hard it is to get them to shut up? I’m not inviting them to start yelling again! I need my beauty sleep!”

“ _Claire_ ,” Allison snarls.

Shit. Shit _sticks_ , and _screw_ Ben for leaving his conscience behind when he fucked off to heaven. “Goddammit, fine, whatever,” Klaus sighs, and rubs his face, anticipating a bitch of a headache. “Fine. Yes! Claire. You’d better be feeding me drinks when I get through this, though, Allison. You’re gonna owe me _buckets_.”

“I’ll make you as many margaritas as you can put away. I want my daughter to meet her uncle Klaus.” Allison says, which is such a weird concept Klaus sort of freezes for a sec. What lunatic would let him near their child. She links her arm though his: she knows him well enough to keep a good grip on him now, damn her crafty ways. “Where’d Five get off to? He’ll know what you need to ask.”

“Shit, I don’t know, he blinked off after Vanya clocked him during training hour.”

Allison stops. “What.”

Right, that was going to be a secret. Oh wait no, it wasn’t, because it was way too good not to share. Klaus meets her widening eyes and nods slowly. “Solid punch. Right in the schnozz.”

Allison shouts laughter at the ceiling, her whole face scrunching up with it. She doesn’t let go of his arm, though. “Wow. I would have paid good money to see that. He’s probably in his room, trying to make the swelling go down.”

Or sleeping, maybe. They all think Five ought to do more of that, but Klaus doesn’t think any of them can really throw stones on this subject. None of them have ever been much good at sleeping. Five might be the worst, though, between his endless mathing and his totally not obsessing over the shitshow that is their collective life, and whatever else he’s got going on. A lot of whatever else, probably. He’s wound like a seminary student in a whorehouse most days.

“Hang on,” Klaus says, and twists free. He snatches a mug from the dish rack and fills it with the dregs of the coffee Allison must have made. “Bribes. One of these days we’re gonna have to introduce our tiniest bro to mocha cappuccinos, it’ll be beautiful. Or terrible. Either way, I want to see what happens.”

“Well, you can probably get an espresso machine, the way this place is set up. I guess we’re lucky you started that cult after all.”

Klaus dusts an imaginary lapel. “It’s all about the planning.”

She’s holding on again, though a little more politely this time. She steers him toward the stairs. Headache express, leaving the station. “Thanks,” Allison says, looking elsewhere. “For before.”

Klaus waves his hand and spills coffee on his leg. “Emotional support junkie,” he mutters.

How he ended up in this gig he has no idea.


	3. Chapter 3

“You know, they could be there now,” Ben says for the bazillionth time. He’s been less pushy about it lately; he’s been distracted. They’ve both had a lot going on.

“Agh. _Enough_ , Benny! Not now. I have to do a thing soon: I need to zone out for a bit.”

San Francisco in the 60s was fun for a while but has turned out to be a bust: mostly, Klaus suspects, because he’s sober. He’d forgotten that the major appeal of the hippie movement to him, back when Pogo had assigned him reports on it in what Klaus still thinks is the only successful attempt anybody’s ever made at convincing him to study, was the fact that everybody was high _all the time_.

Why he’s bothering to stay not-high he has no idea. He doesn’t need his crappy powers. At this point he could fart in a prayer meeting and there’d be a joyous cacophony of ass trumpets in return, and everybody but him would find something profound in the experience.

Actually, that’s a pretty good analogy for this whole endeavor. Maybe he ought to write that one down.

“Prophet?”

Ah, hell. Never a moment’s peace.

It’s that girl Ben’s been mooning over. She’s newish, still buzzing with the knowledge she thinks she’s found. Pretty, in a nerdy, much-too-smart-for-this-bullshit way. _Totally_ Ben’s type. How Ben thinks that’s going to work, Klaus really isn’t sure. Can ghosts get it on? Would Klaus have to be in the room to keep him corporeal? That would be a pretty big ask.

“Are you speaking with the divine again, Prophet?”

“I sure hope not,” Klaus mutters, eyeing his dead brother. Ben’s not even looking: he’s frozen, his face alight with her. First love: oh, Ben. It makes Klaus think of Dave, Dave, Dave. Dave stoned and giggling in that awful helmet, someone else’s blood splattered over his face; Dave at some falling-down bar, moving like dancing was an instinct. Dave bleeding out in the dirt. He pulls in a shaky breath.

The girl bites her lip. Klaus sighs and assumes the position: tilted head, folded hands, serene smile. She kneels to receive whatever he wants to give. Anything he wants to give. She’d do him right here; most of them would. Many of them do. It would actually be a nice distraction.

He is such a piece of shit sometimes.

“Life is demanding without understanding,” Klaus declares. “Open up your eyes. No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong.”

“That’s deep,” Ben says. He’s smiling a little.

“Shush,” Klaus hisses, flapping a hand.

“ _Thank_ you, Prophet,” the girl—Jane? Julie?—whispers. “Oh! Oh _yes_. It’s beautiful. I think I see. Thank you!”

She rushes out, already scribbling in her notebook. Klaus slumps back to stare at the ceiling. He rubs his face. “Jesus christ.”

“Why, are you running out of other material?” Ben says, watching her go with puppydog eyes. 

“Nah man,” Klaus sighs. “That was the real deal right there. I saw the sign.”

Benny still laughs like a nerdy kid, all snickers and snorts. He doesn’t do it very often.

It’s ’63. Dave will—Dave is going to be eighteen soon. He’s going to sign up. He’s going to die horribly. Klaus doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, if he ever did.

“Your beard looks like budget desert landscaping,” Ben says, coming to sit beside him. “Shave.”

“Your hair looks like a mangy chinchilla’s ass, so _there_.”

His brother flops back and frowns moodily at the wall. “Klaus. You don’t see them, do you?”

“I don’t, Benny,” Klaus says. “You’d see them if I did.”

~~

“For once you may actually have something _useful_ to contribute and you’re just going to sit there navel-gazing,” Five gripes. Klaus tosses a pebble at him, doing his best to ignore the sting of sad truth there.

They decided on the back lawn, where it’s less likely some other sibling will wander through. Five’s twitchy enough to power a generator right now; he’s thinking too much. He started picking fights before they even made it outside. Allie’s usually better at not falling for that shit, but: her kid. She’s probably not thinking all that clearly.

Klaus is barely thinking at all. He’s been trying and failing to tune out the dead since they sat on the grass. There’s a man in a business suit with a knife in his chest yelling in his ear. There’s a lady wailing in what sounds like Portuguese by the rose bush; her forehead has a big hole in it. There are three or four more vague shapes hovering by the trees, coming closer. This is about to become an all-too-familiar scene _sans_ dirty stone walls. His stomach flips. 

“Step right up, folks,” he mutters. “Don’t forget to tip your waitress.”

“Lay off him, Five,” Allison says. “We’d probably never have made it through the first apocalypse without Klaus and Ben, and definitely not the second. And where were you for that one? Oh, right: duking it out with an older version of yourself on yet another classic side quest. You keep telling us to stick together, but you’re the one who’s always taking off.”

There’s a trick to plucking just one out of a crowd like this. He would probably have an easier time remembering it if his sibs would shut up.

“Guys,” Klaus says. “Take it elsewhere, maybe?”

“ _Younger_ version of me. How difficult is this concept to get? He hadn’t jumped to March 2019 to stop the first apocalypse yet: ergo, he was younger than me by two weeks. Do I need to draw you a diagram? Would pictures help, or should I just stick to one-syllable words?”

Jean pats her hydrangea sadly. Klaus pinches the headache out of his nose. “Uh. Guys?” he says.

“Fine. A _younger_ version of you in your _old body_ , though, so I’m right too, aren’t I?”

“ _This_ sounds like it was quite a shitshow,” Klaus says, because a distraction is a good thing now that the stabby ghost is bleeding in his face. He thinks he remembers Luther saying something about Five fighting himself, but if he blocked it out, it would have been a reasonable thing to do, because one Five is already enough to break several timelines and brains. “Exactly why were you throwing down with…yourself?”

Five scowls. “Since _some_ of you assholes didn’t show for the deadline to go home, I needed to get the briefcase I had when I came to ’63 the first time around. But I wasn’t exactly cooperative.”

“Ohhoho,” Allison mutters. “Right. _Sorry_ I couldn’t make your deadline when the assassins sent after _you_ were trying to kill _me_. Coworkers of yours?”

The wailing lady kneels in front of him. Her left eye bulges; her skull is shattered right over her eyebrow. Ben isn’t here to make jokes and observations. It’s a nice day, but Klaus can feel stone walls closing in on him.

Christ on a cracker, his head is splitting in half. _“_ Guys! Enough. _”_

“Yes,” Five snaps. “They were. And _Klaus_ made it but _you_ couldn’t?”

Oh for god’s sake. “ _Ben_ made it, okay?” Klaus yells. “That was _Benny_ driving, not me, I guarantee you I’d have fucked it up too! He wanted to talk to a girl he liked so I let him possess me and then I puked him out in the alley because he wouldn’t leave until he got us there, and oh hey, I couldn’t get him out before that because my powers are shit and ghosts aren’t like in the damn movies! Which you two might find out if you would _shut up_ so I can _concentrate_!”

The headache expands outward like it’s going to leave his skull and find a new home somewhere smarter. His skin goes cold; his nerves light up. His hands are locked into fists. He can’t breathe. There’s a weird bird-like shriek from the direction of the house.

Five and Allison do indeed shut up.

“God,” Allison says. Five hisses through his teeth. Klaus opens an eye.

Oh. Oops. Here they all are.

The stabbed guy and the shot lady and Jean and three suits by the trees; two civil war soldiers in the woods; one golfer in the house; one by the pond. None of them are yelling anymore. None of them are moving, either. They’re just…waiting.

Klaus can feel the pull of them in his chest: he’s already tired. “Ah shit,” he gasps. “What’d I tell you. No party like a corpse party.”

“ _Ew_. Why are your powers so _gross_ ,” Allison says.

“Klaus.” Five kneels next to him at a safe distance. This is nicely symmetrical. His hands are curled: he’s ready to blink elsewhere in a hurry. “Can you let them go?”

Maybe. They are weirdly quiet for ghosts. He’d yelled _catch me_ at the farm, hadn’t he, after Diego’s girlfriend blew them all up, and two cowboys had caught him. Klaus waves a hand around in a vague circle. “See anybody you recognize?” he says, teeth chattering. “I don’t think I can do this for much longer.”

Five casts a look around, then back at him, and frowns. “Let them go, you’re using too much energy. You’re going to pass out.”

Is _that_ what this feeling is. “Allie thinks it might help us find her daughter. Just pick one, Five. Quick.”

Allison shakes at his shoulder. “Come on,” she says. “We can try again later. Klaus, you’re kind of turning blue.”

Well, that’s not his color. “ _Five_. Damn it, pick one!”

“I got a name,” Five says evenly. “I’ll let you know what it is tomorrow when you’re rested, assuming you survive this attempt, you moron. Shut it down _now_ , Klaus.”

Yeah, but how. He unclenches his fists. “Go away?” he gasps, and the awful pulling in his chest stops. Klaus rubs his face and takes stock. One sister, a little wild-eyed: check. One brother, a little narrow-eyed: check. Zero corpses: check.

Not a single ghost in sight.

“Shit,” Klaus says, and starts laughing, because it’s better than the alternative. He flops down flat on his back. “Son of a _bitch_. You old bastard, I hope your chintzy afterlife barbershop burns down, I hope the bitchy little girl on the bike flattens it. You _fucker_! You couldn’t have just told me how to do that _twenty years ago_?”

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Allie says, patting his shoulder.

“Seldom if ever,” says Five. “Let’s get him inside and give him a juice or something.”

Hell with _that_. “Nope,” Klaus says. “I opt for the poolside service. I’m not moving.”

“KLAUS,” Diego bellows from an upstairs window. “WHY DID A GODDAMN GHOST CARRYING A GOLF CLUB SUDDENLY APPEAR. IN THE SHOWER. WITH ME.”

“ _Definitely_ not moving,” Klaus mutters.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’ll try again tomorrow,” Klaus says around a mouthful of canned peaches.

“We’ve got time,” Allison says, watching him spoon up another drippy pile of them with an expression of fascinated disgust. The way she picks at her fingernails suggests this is a lie. Klaus supposes everything coming out of her mouth that isn’t _I need to find my daughter_ is kind of a lie right now. The rest of them didn’t leave much behind in the first 2019, so far as he could tell: Mom and Pogo were killed, Diego’s friend was killed, Luther was pretty much sticking around for Dad. Vanny didn’t really seem to have much going on besides her music, which she’s been shying away from ever since they got back, though he did ask for a violin and a bow, and amazingly, they arrived. And Five came back for _them_ , so.

But Allie left behind a career and bitchy ex and a tiny human she _created_.

She notices him noticing and leaves her fingernails alone to stare at the ceiling. “I mean, this is all kind of nowhere time until we figure out our next move, isn’t it.”

That’s certainly one way to look at it.

Klaus has spent most of his life thinking of his days this way, though, and close to the same amount of time listening to Benny argue for a different viewpoint. He makes a face and shovels more food in. “That was something, back there,” his sister adds, because she never did go small when she decided to change a subject. “I didn’t know you could conjure that many.”

He waves a hand and splatters peach syrup all over the table. “Eh. I got in some training in back in the 60s, you know. Flexed some muscles. Metaphorically. Had to keep up the whole spiritual leader thing, right?”

Allison just stares. It’s less of a Death Stare and more of a Mom Stare, which is a weird thing to be on the other end of after being raised by an actual Stepford wife and a bug-eyed billionaire with the emotional range of a dog turd. Klaus drinks the rest of the peach syrup directly from the can. “If you must know, they were already there, dear sister. They pretty much always are, lurking and yelling and crying and whatnot. With a few notable exceptions, today being one, I haven’t actually conjured a ghost since 2006. I don’t have to: they flock to me like groupies to a boy band.”

She pulls in a breath. “Ben? That was who?”

“Yeah.”

Though maybe Ben was lurking, too, waiting. Klaus doesn’t think so, but. There’s apparently some significant stuff Ben left out over the years.

“Hold on,” Allison murmurs. “Luther said you conjured Dad, and that was before the _first_ apocalypse—”

Shit. He keeps forgetting they all talk to each other now. It’s inconvenient. “Well, I’m gonna lay down for a bit,” Klaus says, and stands. He’s still a little woozy. Note to self: never conjure around fighting siblings. “Thanks for the peaches.”

“Klaus—”

“Nope! All done. You gotta keep your medium happy, and this medium needs a nap.”

“ _Klaus_.” Allison stands. She doesn’t quite go as far as grabbing him, which is good because he’s a little scattered right now. “Keeping things from each other is what got us _in_ this mess!”

Funny, he thought that was Dad drugging Vanya to the gills and making everyone think she had no powers, and them all ignoring her and everybody numbers-cliquing their way through the apocalypses like they were pre-teens, going their separate ways at critical moments, and—ah, well, crap. She’s not wrong. “Later,” Klaus says, pinching the skin between his eyes. He is not above playing this card. “Allie. Please. I’m beat. I don’t have the juice for a confessional moment right now. You can grill me later, I promise.”

It’s Allison, so she sees right through him. But it’s Allison, so she also lets it go, the better to ambush him with it later around witnesses.

~

His room is the nicest. It isn’t the biggest: that honor is Luther’s, not unreasonably since he knocks shit over every few minutes, but this one has the best light and a hell of a bathroom. A lovely fluffy bed. It’s also in a corner with a big closet between him and his sibs, so nobody has to hear him muttering at dead gardeners and falling out of bed when he dreams of stone walls, or gunfire, or Dave, or Ben.

Well, hopefully they don’t. Vanya wakes everyone up on occasion, and so does Diego, and Five paces in his attic fortress of solitude until the wee hours, so maybe they’re all just living each other’s shit memories 24/7 up in here. Sometimes a night on the streets again seems like it might be peaceful. More often a happy fistful of pills or a needle seems like it might be.

Oh well. It’s almost peaceful here, for the moment. Klaus tipped the door shut enough that it blocks noise. Not enough that it’s completely closed. The right amount of privacy minus the wrong amount of trapped. It’s perfect. He is totally, utterly relaxed. Serene. Zen, even.

Dammit. Now he’s going to have to get up and pull it open some.

“So, possession,” Five says, blinking in right in front of the window. Klaus shrieks and flings the bedside lamp at him. It gets about four feet before the power cord chokes it back, and the pink shade crumples as it hits the floor.

“Nice reflexes,” Five says, straightening out of a defensive crouch.

“What the _hell_ ,” Klaus gasps. He clutches a decorative pillow to his chest. “Five. Were you raised in a _barn_? There is a door there, and it’s shut! What if I’d been _naked_ in here?”

“Then I would have been scarred for life, I suppose.” Five frowns at him. “What, do you just hang out in here naked? Don’t answer that. I don’t actually want to know.”

If Klaus ever doubted his brother spent four-plus decades on his lonesome, he’d only need to wait for Five to open his mouth to know that particular sob story was the real deal. Five makes the rest of them look well-socialized. 

He rearranges himself into a less cowering-in-a-corner position and runs his hands through his hair. Scratches at his scalp. Yawns. Stretches. Five is watching him with poorly concealed irritation when he feels calm enough to look up: bonus. “I liked that lamp, short stuff.”

“You probably shouldn’t have thrown it, then. They tend to break when you do that.”

“Shoo. I’m fresh outta ghosts at the moment, and I was just settling down for a long summer’s nap.”

“Possession,” Five reprises, in that tone-deaf way he has of trying to start a conversation because he wants to know something and he thinks the other person is too stupid to suss out the agenda. He picks up the broken lamp to inspect it. The pink shade reflects rosily in his cheeks. If Rockwell had painted an illustration for that morbid old poem about dead kids, it would look exactly like this: wholesome and creepy in equal parts. “Is that what happened to you at the dinner with Dad, too?”

Klaus slides down, pulling the pillow over his face. “F is for Five, who was beaned by a lamp,” he mutters. Maybe if he pretends to sleep, Five will skedaddle. This never worked when they were kids, but he’s an old man now, he gets cranky about his siblings wasting his time.

Well. Cranki _er_ , anyway.

There’s a _fizz-fwoomph_ , and the mattress sags on the opposite corner. “K is for Klaus, who was smothered in bed,” Five says grimly.

Klaus hugs the pillow to hide a surprised snuffle of laughter. “That didn’t rhyme with mine. It doesn’t count.”

“It scans better than yours, pea-brain.”

“Aw, Fivey. I always knew there was poetry hiding in there somewhere.” Klaus snuggles further into the duvet. “I can’t believe you remember those. What’s it been, like, fifty years?”

“They were sort of stuck in my head for a while,” Five says.

Klaus moves the pillow to eye him. They used to read those things and laugh, then make up their own after the rougher training sessions and laugh some more. _K is for Klaus who can’t open the door, F is for Five passed out cold on the floor._ Five eyes him back and tosses the lamp casually across the room, having realized he gave something away there; according to the Unabridged Hargreeves Playbook, violence must follow. He smiles his terrifying not-smile. “S is for Séance,” he says with false cheer, folding his legs under him. “Who speaks with the dead.”

“No,” Klaus moans. “Goddammit, I just want to _sleep_ , and _now_ you want to be all chatty? Go heckle Allison, she’s always up for a verbal sparring match.”

“Oh, she’s taking a nap,” Five says, horribly smug.

“Okay, that’s it,” Klaus says, and sits up. “I’m taking my pants off. Getting naked. Napping in the nude. Enjoy the show.” He unbuttons. Unzips. “Stripping now,” he adds, in case something was unclear. Five blinks at him and curls up a little, making himself smaller. It would be almost cute except for the big sleepless shadows under his eyes, and the cool calculation in them. “Jesus christ, you’re almost twice my age, why do I feel like the pedo here.” Klaus flops back to kick at the mattress. “Grow a damn beard already.”

“I’ll get right on that: god knows I’ve got nothing more important to do. Zip your fly, you pervert.” Five snags a pillow for himself. “A few questions and I’ll leave you to your weird afternoon.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” Klaus zips his fly, an action which seems like a contradiction even to him. “I don’t have to answer. You can just yammer away and watch me sleep.”

The mattress bounces again as Five shifts. “What a dream come true that will be.”

Klaus curls around his pillow and stuffs his face into it. It’s dark. Soft. His breathing sounds very Darth Vader-y through the cotton. Somebody’s washing dishes downstairs. Jean the dead gardener is humming from outside.

A dumb bird shrieks outside the window. A _fizz-fwoomph_ sound comes from much closer. Klaus rolls onto his back and nearly has a heart attack, because Five is about a foot from his face, sitting with his hands steepled and his crazy intense stare turned up to eleven.

“ _Jesus_ , Five,” Klaus gasps. “This is the worst sleepover ever! And did you seriously just blink for a few feet on a _bed_? What do you even _want_.”

A small curl appears at one corner of Five’s mouth. This is his real smile, at least when he’s not stoned. It stretches into another fake one. “Maybe I just want to hang out with my baby brother,” he says, sounding nothing and everything like a snotty kid. “Who I might leave alone, if he’d answer a few perfectly reasonable questions about his powers so I can come up with a goddamn _plan_.”

Up close, which is something Klaus generally tries to avoid with this most unpredictable of sibs, Five looks more than a little stretched at the seams. Twitchy in the hands, bruised around the eyes, too thin. Ben murmurs in his head. This time Klaus doesn’t need the push, because, yeah. He’s probably about to piss Five off a whole lot if he can land this right, but he’s starting to think somebody needs to. They’ve all been mostly watching him work from a safe distance, which is exactly where Five prefers them. It’s how he operated even when he was the age he looks: he’d hover at the edges of things, being all smug and superior and solitary, until he tripped over his own big brain and fell facefirst into a feeling.

Sometimes, somebody else could do the tripping, though.

Klaus sighs through his nose and rubs his face, trying to wake himself up. It figures that this would end up in his lap. Emotional support junkie. Here is a job that ought to come with hazard pay if ever there was one.

“You want answers, you gotta give ‘em, grandpa paradox,” he says lazily; Five utters a startled snort. “Unless you’ve forgotten how the game goes, of course. It’s been a minute, and I know you old people have bad memories.”

Five frown-squints, then makes a disapproving face. “What was it called? Third degree or something?”

Klaus waggles a finger at him. “I think you might be mixing us up with your assassin play group. The name—”

“Truth chicken,” Five murmurs. He huffs and glowers up at the ceiling. “I don’t have time for games, Klaus.”

This is funny, because while Klaus alone can claim the brilliance of the Dead Umbrella Kids Poem Competitions, Five is the one who invented this; Klaus is pretty sure he remembers that right. Partly to get Luther’s goat, because while Five had never cared much for the ranking system Dad gave them instead of names, he’d also never been much for following orders—but mostly as a way to drag Benny out of his own head after missions. Brotherly support in the form of bludgeoning one another with brutal honesty until somebody cracked was exactly Five’s speed; Klaus doubts his idea of it has changed much.

“I guess you don’t have time for answers either, then,” Klaus says, shrugging. He stretches again. “Consider it a challenge, since you’re too grown-up and boring for games. Or, here’s an idea: don’t. I wanna get my nap on, after all.”

“For god’s sake,” Five mutters. He twists to lie flat, as far from Klaus as the bed will allow. “This is frivolous. But fine, if you want to get beat, I guess I can oblige. How did it go again? Since I’m old and my memory’s so bad.”

This is a trap, Klaus is certain. He walks into it smiling. “Truth for truth, Fivey. You tell one, I tell one, and so on. No lying, no powers, and if somebody raises the stakes, the other person has to ante up too. Topic’s up for grabs, but it has to be about you, not somebody else: you have to use _I_ for it to count.” Five does his thinking face, sorting that through and probably planning ten moves ahead already. “First one to either laugh or cry loses. Oh—or yell or stomp off,” he adds, remembering. “Dee was always good for that.”

“He was, wasn’t he,” Five says, that curl getting a little deeper for a second. His eyelids are starting to look droopy. How long has it been since he slept eight hours straight through, Klaus wonders. In an actual bed, because his attic situation looks more like a campground. “Shit. I did forget about that. Not a great choice on your part though, Klaus. How do you expect to win this? You’re a weepy idiot the majority of the time.”

That stings a little, but he’s man enough to admit it’s not exactly untrue. “Well some of us weren’t born with hearts three sizes too small, mister grinch,” Klaus replies. “Also, some of us aren’t rocking puberty right now. All those raging hormones, oof. Good luck. I can’t wait for you to get zits.”

“You’ll be the first person I tell.” Five laces his hands behind his head and crosses his ankles. “Okay. Truth the first—”

“Aw! You _do_ remember how it goes.” Klaus waves a hand in a circle when Five pins him with a weary look. “Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

Five heaves a sigh. “Truth the first, since you were curious about it: I screwed up when I decided to meet my younger self. I should have waited until he jumped to 2019 and taken the briefcase he left behind, but we were both already in the timeline and I…probably wasn’t thinking that clearly by then.”

Klaus shifts a little, the better to see Five’s annoyed face. “What would it have changed? You not having whatever it was Luther said you had. Time-traveler’s revenge, or whatever.”

There it is: frowny unibrow and pursed mouth, like he just bit into a moldy sandwich. “Paradox psychosis. Put simply, you can’t be too close to another version of yourself or it messes with your head. Are you supposed to ask questions?”

“Eh. If they’re relevant. Doesn’t mean you have to answer, of course, but if you do, I have to when it’s my turn.”

Hook line and sinker, bitches. Five turns sideways to face him, radiating drowsy confidence. “If I’d been thinking more clearly, I’d have known he would start planning to kill me the second he saw me,” he says. His smile isn’t real this time—though, Klaus is alarmed to see, he does think it’s amusing, and he probably expects Klaus to think so, too. “I needed him alive, but the reverse wasn’t true.”

Christ on a cracker, if that’s not the weirdest form of self-harm the world’s ever seen, Klaus will eat a leafy vegetable. It definitely isn’t funny. He actually looks up and back to meet Ben’s oh-shit-what-now expression before he remembers. The empty space that meets him is like a fist clenching in his chest.

“Klaus,” says Five. “You losing already? Not that I’m surprised, but I did look forward to more of a fight.”

“Truth the first,” Klaus says, staring at nothing where a brother should be. “I conjured Ben right after his funeral. I never did ask him if he was there for the eulogy Dad gave where he ranted about how it was all our fault. I hope he didn’t hear it.”

Now he won’t ever find out.

After a moment, the faint sound of breathing reminds him there’s another brother here and that he’s gotten off track. Klaus blinks, bites his tongue, and slumps back to meet Five’s eyes. “It was a hell of a speech, Fivey. Very fire and brimstone: a Hargreeves classic.”

“How often did you conjure him between then and last week?” Five says quickly. Poor little guy probably thinks he’s going to get something useful from that question.

“That was it,” Klays says. He shrugs when Five makes a face. “Seriously, that was it. I never had to again, because he never left after that.”

Five thinks about that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hmn. I—”

He pauses, tipping his head. Klaus tilts his toward the door: for a second he’s not sure what he’s hearing, then it comes clearer, though it’s muffled by walls and another door. Violin. The notes are pure and high, but a little hesitant, like Vanny’s worried they’ll all come rushing into her room and try to take her down again. It’s easy to picture her there in her room, chin up and shoulders tight as she feels her way back into it, afraid of her powers and her anger and her place in the family, and being brave anyway. He doesn’t recognize the piece, but he has to bite down hard on his cheek so he doesn’t lose on a technicality, because it’s beautiful and it hurts.

Klaus glances back: Five’s non-expression has gone a little softer at the edges. “How about we give it a minute,” Five murmurs. “I want to hear her play.”

“Yeah.”

She really should have played at Benny’s funeral. _That_ would have been a eulogy. Ben would have liked that a lot.

The music doesn’t last long; then there’s the click of her door opening and Vanya’s footsteps receding down the hall, quiet like she’s hoping not to have to talk to anybody. That’s fair. If Klaus could make a noise like that he’d feel like one big raw exposed nerve afterward. Doing it on a stage in front of people must be truly terrifying.

There’s a soft not-quite-snore from beside him. Five’s out cold.

Klaus huffs a soft laugh, listening to his little-older brother breathe. Five may kill him later when he realizes he passed out in Klaus’s bed, but it’s fine: the little girl on the bike probably doesn’t like him any better in this messed-up timeline than she did in the last one, she’ll kick him out again. And besides, the blackmail material will be worth it.

Of course, now he can’t move, because the tiny terror probably wakes up ready to commit murder, and he definitely sleeps light. Great.

Five sleeps hunched into himself with his hands curled into fists. Klaus can’t remember if this was always the case. Maybe it’s a recent development, since he met another version of himself, because _wow_ has that got to mess with a guy.

He suspects would have a lot to say to his younger self if he chanced to run across that handsome devil, and a lot of it wouldn’t be polite—but christ, he doesn’t think he’d start planning to off himself in the first few _minutes_.

It makes awful sense, though, because Fivey was always the type to interpret every failure as a personal flaw to be repaired immediately. Looking at his younger self looking back at his older self must have been like having every one of his unfixed mistakes shoved in his face all at once.

Klaus wonders what thirteen-year-old him would do if he had to hang out with thirty-year-old them.

Well, no. He doesn’t wonder, in fact: despite his best efforts he hasn’t managed to destroy enough brain cells to have forgotten what he was like at thirteen. Little him would have charmed and joked and trashed the place. He would have stolen all the booze and pissed on the pillows of anybody who suggested he smarten up, promised everything he could think of, broken all promises, lied like a rug. He would have avoided closets and closed doors and looking in shadowed corners, joked more, pigged out on sugar, nagged Diego into showing off his dance moves and Allison into painting his nails, cried in the shower with his hands plastered over his mouth to hide the sound, pestered Five until he went off on an epic math rant, lied more, teased Luthor, ambush-tickled Vanya from around corners until she was pissed off enough to fight back. He would have tried to conjure Ben over and over again until it hurt. He’d have had a few panic attacks in the backyard under a tree, destroyed something pricey, lied some more, and faked not caring until everybody he needed gave up on him so he didn’t have to worry about when it would finally happen. He would have been the class clown and the fair-weather friend and the peacemaker and the cautionary tale, and he would have lied, and lied, and lied.

Okay. Maybe he can see how Five got there. And stupid little teenage Klaus didn’t even fuck up so badly he ended up alone at the end of the world.

Just alone. Just couch-hopping and pill-popping and stealing and scavenging for years, driving away everyone except the dead brother who was stuck with him, and—shit. _Shit_.

“Shit,” Klaus gasps, and scrubs his face. “We’re pretty messed up, aren’t we, buddy?”

He’s not actually sure who he’s talking to, himself or Five. Maybe it’s the little girl on the bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long stretch: I'm sick and in the middle of buying a house, and urgh.
> 
> If you haven't read it already, the creepy poem is The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey, which weird tiny me was morbidly obsessed with for a good few months.


	5. Chapter 5

Five sleeps for about an hour.

Klaus tries to sleep too, but stupid Benny’s leftover conscience keeps him awake like the worst Jiminy Cricket bullshit there ever was. He keeps imagining Five looking at himself and deciding: _kill that_. He keeps seeing himself at thirteen. He can’t make his mind move off this track. He misses being high so badly it’s an ache in his bones.

He misses pretending not to care even more. It turns out that might be a lot of what the drugs were for all along, and isn’t that just a hard kick in the balls.

A fly lands on his face and he slaps it off.

“Either you’re high,” Five says, making Klaus startle so violently he manages to hit himself in the face again. Five makes a weird muffled noise. Klaus turns to see: smug little bastard is trying not to laugh. It’s a good look on him, as is a little rest. “Or,” Five finishes, “you’ve been crying. Either way, I think I win.”

“Your concern is noted. Hate to disappoint, but I’ve just been staring deeply into the ceiling fan and waiting for you to wake up.” Klaus rolls over. “Game’s not over, young man. Unless you’re going to fall asleep on me again, and I _will_ consider that a forfeit, you’ve had your one free pass.”

Look at that narrow-eyed scowl. It was never hard to prod Five in a direction; you just had to imply he couldn’t hack it and off he went, monologuing the whole way.

“Ante up, asshole. It’s your turn.”

“Three for three?”

“If you think you can handle it.”

“Loser has to eat a whole plate of Luther’s scorched eggs tomorrow morning.”

Five scowls. “No. When I win, you’re answering all my questions, remember? You’re not weaseling out of that, Klaus.”

Klaus waves a hand. “Oh, I’m doing that anyway and you know it. You can grill me all you want after dinner. I want to meet Claire too, you know. This’ll just be a bonus. Live a little.”

“Fair enough.” Five stretches and scratches at his head. “Let’s raise the stakes, shall we? Loser has to hide all of Diego’s knives.”

Jesus _christ_. “Loser has to profess his undying love to everyone at the next family gathering of drinking as a substitute for healthy coping mechanisms,” Klaus counters.

Five huffs. “That’s quite a judgment coming from you, Klaus.”

Klaus bats his eyes. “Who better to judge?”

“Fine,” Five says. “All three.”

“Shit, short stack,” Klaus sighs. “You do play to win, don’t you.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Tween-timer?”

“Screw _you_ , Klaus, quit stalling or start figuring out how to steal Diego’s knives.”

“I think you secretly liked grandpa paradox.” Klaus stretches, cracks his knuckles, stares at his brother until they’re probably both uncomfortable. _He_ certainly is, and he’s about to get a lot more so, because an hour to think didn’t make him any less certain of what he needs to do, but it’s not possible to win this game against somebody like Five without also losing it, and losing it good.

What a good thing he’s got so much practice at losing.

“Okay. Truth the—whatever, I lost count, truth the first part deux: I’ve died six times.”

Five’s poker face is a thing of beauty, but he still has his tells: he flicks his thumb over his pointer finger sometimes. During training when they were expected to hurt each other to win. While waiting in line for a tattoo none of them wanted. When he zones out while looking at trees and food. “That I know of, anyway,” Klaus adds. “ODs, mostly. So six plus your three makes nine, and I guess I might be out of extras now but you know, I kind of doubt it.” He gets a grip on the fluttery feeling trying to climb up out of his guts. “And the kicker is, I don’t want to die, but I was still kind of relieved when you said I did. I figured out a while back that it’s my fault I’ve only had ghosts for company for the last decade, but the idea of outliving everyone I know scares the shit out of me.”

His brother inhales audibly. That might have been too low a blow, but hell with it. This is go time, and blunt force honesty is all Klaus has to work with. He crawled through crossfire in a jungle: he can do this. He hopes.

“Truth the first,” Five says, arctic. “Outliving everyone you know _should_ scare the shit out of you.”

Klaus waits a moment. He raises an eyebrow. “Was that it? I didn’t hear an _I_. You playing or forfeiting?”

Five exhales hard through his nose. His eyes never waver. “Truth the first,” he says again. His voice has gone a little gravelly. He looks very much like an old man stuck in a young body right now. He looks very much like a hit man. “I’ve been alone for forty-five years. I _always_ knew it was my fault.”

Oh Five. Jesus. He knew it, but hearing it’s still a suckerpunch; all the more so because Five doesn’t appear to realize what he just gave away. Klaus curls his toes into the duvet.

“Truth the second,” he says. _Ante up, Klaus._ For a moment he can’t make his throat work. “Yeah. Early in my career of street living, I bonded with a fellow dumpster-diver. She was a firecracker; always angry. She’d run away from her dear papa too, and when she told me why I was grateful to Dad for the first time since I was oh, ten, because at least he never hurt us like that in the name of training. When she told me I ta—I—shit.” Klaus shuts his eyes and breathes. Five gives a mocking little head-tilt when he opens them: god, what a vicious gremlin he is.

“When she told me, I taught her how to use,” Klaus says, fast and tight. “I told her it would help. I think I really believed it. I gave her some of my stuff, even; stupid little shitbag that I was, I practically put it in her veins for her before I shot myself up. It turns out maybe I should have, because she overdid it. I was so high I didn’t even notice, I just laid there dreaming and when I woke up she was cold and covered in puke. She was the first person I killed, and I was too afraid to tell anyone where she was. I’ve been waiting for her to come haunt me ever since I got sober.”

Well. That old rehab saying about lightening the load is some _serious_ horseshit. What a good thing he didn’t try it earlier, or he’d never have had the guts now. He can’t stop shaking. He might throw up. He definitely does not feel lighter, and he can’t look at Five, who might in fact be the least likely of his sibs to judge.

“Truth the second,” Five says quietly, and shit, Klaus is not ready. “You were the skinniest and the easiest to move, which is one reason I waited to bury you last. The other reason is I thought—I hoped—that maybe you were still hanging around. Your power, you know. You were also the easiest to identify. I could see your tattoo. But I recognized your face even though I’d never seen you grown up, Klaus. You changed the least. You’re how I was certain who you all were.”

Five always did play for keeps.

The trick to not crying when all your body wants to do is eject the poison in your soul through your tear ducts is to hold your breath. The trick is to bite your tongue until you forget what you needed to say. The trick is to make a joke. The trick is to daydream of running away. The trick is to drink. The trick is to imagine smothering your father in his sleep. The trick is to pop a pill. The trick is to firebomb your bridges. The trick is to lie. The trick is to become such a fuckup you methodically kill every expectation anyone has of you, even if they love you. _Especially_ if they love you.

The trick is also to flick your thumb over your finger and cut as deep as you can as fast as you can, to make it quick, and to keep cutting even when you’re the one doing most of the bleeding.

“You giving up, Klaus?” Five’s smirk is hard and furious. They used to go up and throw shit off the roof after the trainings that pitted them against each other, that left them bloody and trembling and confused about who was a teammate and who was an enemy, and Five would smirk just like this if anybody had the audacity to ask him if he was okay. They all learned not to ask.

“I’m really not,” Klaus says unsteadily. “It’s were, by the way. You _were_ alone for forty-five years, and that was Dad’s fault more than anybody’s. He was the grownup. We were just kids playing with hand grenades. But it’ll be your fault if you stay that way, Fivey. Take it from somebody who’s blazed that particular trail: that’ll be a choice.”

Whew. _That_ was a direct hit. He can see the bruise it leaves in Five’s widening eyes.

“Truth the third,” Klaus says before Five can recover. It’s both satisfying and awful to see his brother visibly bracing himself. Klaus extends a finger and taps at Five’s where his thumb is still flicking over it. Five looks down and goes still. His face empties out. For the first time, Klaus is afraid. He might clear ten deaths today. Fratricide: a new one. 

“I skipped out in the middle of the night,” he says, hushed. “I was too chicken to say goodbye. I broke into Dad’s safe and cleaned it out, and then I got on a bus. I went to Oregon first and bummed around Crater Lake. Then that physics museum in DC. I snuck into all the science exhibits in Montreal, and I went to see those huge sequoias you wouldn’t shut up about. I was hitching by then and high the whole time. I was pretty useless, no surprise there. But I went everywhere I could remember you saying you wanted to go.”

He still might throw up: it’s been so long since he laid this many pieces of himself out where they can get more broken. But it’s working. He can practically see Five’s brain stumbling over the information, trying to slot it into whatever unfinished picture he has of where he fit in their lives.

Five looks so young when his guard’s down.

Five is a lot older than him, though, and it’s not actually that hard to remember it most of the time: there’s mature judgment under his bravado, a sort of tired confidence in himself that probably comes from having been shoved up against his limits over and over again. But this is only half of the equation, because Klaus is pretty sure Five is also stuck in the moment when he jumped forward and lost everybody in one roll of the dice. It’s some messed-up time-traveler type math, but he needs to believe that it averages out; that there is enough continuity for what he wants, if he can be brave. Benny would want him to be brave. Hell, Ben would have gone after it already, as many times as he needed to, because Ben was the only one of them who refused to let his shitty childhood and the impossible weight of his powers grind the generosity out of his soul. Alive and dead, Ben never gave up on any of them.

_Finish it, Klaus._

He wants, dammit, to get just _one_ lost brother back.

“I knew you weren’t dead,” Klaus says. “I mean, how could I not, right? I kept hoping I’d catch you up, though I guess I must have known better on some level, because we all knew—we really all did know that you’d have come back if you could have. And here you are; you did it. But for seventeen years the only thing that made my shitty powers tolerable was seeing Benny’s ghost and not seeing yours.”

He lost the game completely in the middle of that, but Klaus doubts Five has even noticed, since at some point he had to shut his eyes.

Hell with it. Fratricide will be exciting, right? Klaus taps Five’s knuckle again, presses his fingertips against the top of Five’s hand. Five’s shivering. He doesn’t pull away, though: that’s something. “That’s it,” Klaus breathes, and swipes his face against his collar, smearing snot everywhere. Christ, he is such a _mess_. “That’s all I got. You win, Five. I’m a weepy idiot.”

“Truth the third,” Five says, eyes still shut. “Winning is—winning’s really not what I do, if you haven’t noticed.” 

“Well no shit, Five. Congratulations, you’re a Hargreeves.”

It happens fast: the sound Five makes starts out as a laugh, then it bends. His face bends right along with it. “Oh you _shithead,_ ” Five whispers. “God. Oh, god. Goddammit.” He curls around his belly like he got punched. “Fuck you, Klaus, you _asshole_. _Fuck_ you.”

“Fuck you too, you scary bastard,” Klaus says quietly. He can feel all the tendons in Five’s hand straining. He doesn’t think he’d need more than three fingers to count the number of times he’s seen Five cry.

Five shudders through it, head pressed into the crook of his arm, silent except for his ragged breathing. Any second now, he will remember that he can leave and do so, then be extra cruel for the next few days. Or months. But maybe it’ll be worth it.

Klaus will keep trying anyway.

“Five,” he says, when it feels like there’s a chance he won’t get his head bitten off. “Hey. You need me to go or you need me to stay?”

“What I need you to do,” Five rasps into his elbow, “is shut up.”

“Well, let’s not aim too high. Shutting up’s really not what I do.” 

Another not-laugh. “I could help you with that.” But Five pulls in a jagged breath and unclenches his fingers. He wraps them around Klaus’s wrist and holds on, which is either _stay_ or a very mixed message. Or maybe this is how it goes when Five is being brave. “Stay,” Five says under his breath: so. Okay then.

“Benny’d love this,” Klaus murmurs. He wipes his eyes. “Man, look at us. Wouldn’t he just love this.”

“Ben—hngh. God _dammit_.” Five knocks his head into his arm, like that will somehow help him get a grip on himself. “Goddammit. Klaus. Please. A few minutes. Just for a few minutes, can you just—not talk. Just give me a few minutes.”

He could be insulted. He also could find it funny: a time-traveler asking for more time.

It really isn’t that funny, though. 

“Yeah, Five, I can do that,” Klaus says, and refrains from anything else that might be construed as comfort. Which is pretty much everything except holding very still and shutting up. He settles for gripping Five’s wrist as tightly as Five is gripping his.

“Why would you do that,” Five says shakily. He coughs. “You moron, you—why would you fucking do that.”

“ _I’m_ the moron?” Klaus snorts. “Same reason as you did. Same as any of us. You think I’m the only one who went looking for you? Five, you dumbass. You’re _family_.”

Five makes a strangled noise and coughs again, disentangles his hand and rolls onto his back. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s out of breath. His face is pale and pinched and shiny with tears. “You idiots,” he husks. “My god, you idiots. What am I supposed to do with you? Ah, shit. I can’t eat a whole plate of Luther’s eggs, I’ll puke.”

“Pretty sure we’re tied for biggest loser, bud. I’ll eat the eggs if you hide the knives.”

Five pops one wet, red-rimmed eye open and pins him with a look. “No. You’re not getting out of it that easily. Besides, it’ll take both of us to hide them all. He must have thirty on him.”

This is true. They might need to visit some of the closest houses. “I’m thinking scavenger hunt,” Klaus says. “Though to be honest, I figured you’d try to stick me with the profession of undying love.”

Five gives a crooked smile. “Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to creeping them all out.”

Klaus hoots: oh holy shit, that is _delightful_. “Diego’s _face_.”

“Vanya, trying to politely work out whether I’ve lost my mind.”

“Luther, trying to figure out if you’re messing with him! Allie will just roll with it, won’t she. But somebody’s definitely gonna hug you, man. My money’s on Luther, good luck getting out of that grip.”

“I’ll manage.” Five sits up and shakes his head like a dog, stares out the window for a moment and sniffs. “Hey. Klaus.”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

That’s an excellent question.

“Maybe.” He may need to lay here for a little while, though. Confession might be good for the soul, but it is absolute hell on the nerves. “I think so. Well, no, actually. But possibly. You?”

“Something like that. Possibly. Why did I invent this stupid game, jesus christ, it’s awful.” Five sighs. “Look. Don’t take this the wrong way, because I know everyone’s trying, and I know I’m not exactly easy to be around. But you’re all kind of exhausting.”

This makes sense. It would even if Five had been here all along: _Klaus_ finds his sibs exhausting. How much messier and louder and needier they all must seem to Five, after decades with nobody but himself for company. “Careful what you wish for?” he says.

“No.” Five rubs his eyes. “No. I guess I just…never really thought I’d get it.”

“But here you are.”

“Yeah,” Five murmurs, frowning. “Here I am.” He huffs a breath and cracks his neck, clambers off the bed. Scrubs at his face with his sleeves. Shakes his hands out like he just finished an arm-wrassling match. Bounces on his toes. Classic Five, putting himself back together. He waggles a hand at Klaus. “Okay. Come on. On your feet, jackass, let’s get this over with.”

“What. _Why_ ,” Klaus moans, but he allows himself to be manhandled upright. “What could possibly be so—”

Five’s too short to get arms about anything but his ribs. He makes up for this with a breath-stealing degree of pressure, like an anaconda acquiring dinner. “Oh,” Klaus says. “ _Wow_.”

“I figure I’d better get it out of the way beforehand in case I punch someone by accident,” Five mumbles into his shirt. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I’m honored you decided to field-test restraining your lethal reflexes on me.” Klaus hugs back carefully. He’d really rather not clear ten deaths today. Five heaves another sigh. He might even hold on a tiny bit tighter. Or that might be Klaus, actually; who can say.

No, it’s definitely both of them.

“This is nice,” Klaus says, because it really, really is.

“No talking.”

“Don’t worry. I understand this has nothing to do with you having actual feelings.”

“Jesus christ, Klaus, could you just shut up for two goddamn minutes.”

“Sure sure. I may need to kiss your fluffy head in a minute though, old man, fair warning.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Five huffs, and shoves away. He’s smiling a little bit, so Klaus will probably live to see another day. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Klaus has to chew on that for a second, because there’s a good point hiding under there somewhere, which maybe has to do with making jokes instead of making more of an effort. “I’m trying to,” he says. His brother casts him a thoughtful look.

“Well,” Five says. He kicks at the carpet. “Not too much.” He turns and points a finger in Klaus’s face. “Listen. You’re not useless. You are a dick. And we will never speak of this again, got it?”

“Got it, absolutely,” Klaus says solemnly. He can afford to: Allie’s hovering in the six-inch gap he left in the door. She’s probably been watching for a while, mother-henning from a marginally safe distance, making sure the bloodshed is kept to a minimum. That is…a little embarrassing. She catches his eye and gives him a thumbs-up. Klaus gives her a feeble _hello_ wave. Five notices and rubs his forehead. “Perfect,” he mutters, and slaps at his jacket sleeves. “Hi, Allison. Come on in, it’s a pity party.”

“My favorite kind,” Allie says, and saunters inside all casual and elegant. She’s not fooling anybody: her fingernails are bitten off and her crossed arms announce that she really, _really_ wanted to get in on that hug. “So. It’s my turn to cook tonight and I want to do something a little more edible than the usual fare. I could use some help?”

Klaus snickers. She probably _could_ use some help, since Allison can burn water, but what she thinks the two of them can do that will improve matters is a mystery for the ages.

Also: bullshit.

“Seriously,” Five says, rolling his eyes. “We’re pretending _that’s_ what you came here for, and not—”

“That I came up to make sure you were both okay and ended up watching you weep in each other’s arms?” she finishes brightly.

Five shuts his mouth with a click of teeth and stares at her, then rubs his neck.

“Okay, yeah, we’ll go with the first one,” he sighs. “I can…chop things, I guess. Vegetables. Whatever.”

“I can give free hugs!” Klaus declares. He proves it by reeling her in. She makes a startled _ee?_ noise and bats at him, but the anaconda approach has its uses. He’s totally employing this in the future: it ought to be particularly hilarious with Vanya. After a second his sister relaxes and leans her head on his shoulder. Klaus rubs her back. “Look at this, you don’t even have to ask, I just throw em out there willy-nilly. Totally free. Fivey, get in on this, man.”

“No tha—ah, shit.” Allie’s gotten him by the sleeve. Klaus gets him by the collar. Five heaves a sigh. “Assholes,” he mutters, but then he squeezes hard enough to cut off bloodflow. “What a giant disaster this family is.”

“Thank god for repression,” Allison agrees. Five snorts into somebody’s shoulder. Klaus hums approval, and she yanks on his hair so she can smack a gross wet kiss onto his cheek. “Come on, you two, we have like fifteen jalapenos in the fridge. Help me make something insanely spicy: I want to watch Diego and Luther posture at each other until they’re both crying blood.”

Five huffs a laugh. “That I can get behind. Okay, but jesus, let go of me already, you’re both…sticky.”

“Oh, right. Ew. _Feelings_.”

“No, you actually are sticky for some reason, it’s disgusting.” Allison grins at Klaus and smacks another loud kiss into Five’s hair. “ _Ugh_ , Allison, you _child_ , _yuck_ —get _off_ —”

“It’s probably the snot,” Klaus says pensively. Both his sibs jump away from him with identical grossed-out expressions. “What, I haven’t had a chance to blow my nose yet. I’ve been busy. You people are just so _clingy_.”

“Jesus ass _christ_ on a _saltine cracker_ , Klaus,” Allison barks, holding her shirt out like it has turned into a dirty diaper. She glares down at it. “What the freaking fucking _fuck_. I’m taking a shower!”

They watch her storm out, still holding her shirt away from her with her fingertips. “You had both _better_ _wash_ before you help me with dinner,” she bellows from the hallway.

Diego does a cool little crouch-slide into the open doorway, looking a bit wild-eyed. He’s holding a knife. “What the hell is she on about?”

“Is everyone okay?” Luther yells from the stairwell. “I heard yelling. Allison? Are you okay?”

“What’s wrong?” Vanya calls from somewhere outside.

“BOYS ARE GROSS,” Allison roars from the hall bathroom.

The door slams hard enough to rattle the walls. Klaus winces. He is definitely going to pay for this.

“What the fuck did you two weirdos do,” Diego says suspiciously, putting the knife away.

Five leans against the bedpost with a hand over his face. He’s laughing so hard that when he tries to reply all that comes out is a little _yaa!_ sound. He flaps a hand at the door, slides down until he’s sitting, and cackles into his knees. “Saltine cracker,” he wheezes.

Diego stares down at him, eyebrows disappearing into his awesome hair. He waves gingerly at Five, who is cackling helplessly now, and then much more accusingly at Klaus. What, that gesture says, have you done here.

It's a pretty good question.

“Group therapy,” Klaus says.


End file.
